MY MOTHER'S ROMANCE WITH (not) Tom Selleck is heating up. Whether this has anything to do with her mod-style gyrating across my kitchen floor to the tune of Love Shack is hard to say since it doesn't seem to have gained the social momentum she was hoping for. She texts Maeve daily asking about her 'fan base'. So far, the video has been seen only a handful of times and shared exactly never.

"I don't understand it," she whines down the phone at me. "Why has your video taken off while ours just sits out there like lemon?"

I assume it has something to do with the fact that my video was unrehearsed -- and a total invasion of my privacy -- while hers was clearly choreographed and, as Maeve puts it, cringey.

Although, not quite cringey enough, somehow. It's a delicate balance that is nearly impossible to achieve intentionally.

"I think it's just not to this generation's taste," I tell her. "They don't get it. Don't worry. That wasn't really the point, was it? You just wanted something to lure Hawaiian Shirt man in. And that seems to be working."

I can practically hear her cat-who-got-the-canary grin down the phone line.

"Do you know, we email and text every day now? Great, long exchanges where we trade stories and secrets and..."

"Not financial or personal identity sorts of secrets, I hope."

"Oh, Alice, I've told you before, I'm not stupid. I know all that about never sharing my password or clicking on emails."

"But Mum, just be careful with what you tell him -- information like where you were born, the name of your primary school -- these are things people can use to guess or change your passwords."

She laughs. "Ridiculous. This gentleman isn't interested in my passwords. We have so much in common; it's like we've known each other all our lives. We tried guessing each other's favourite Beatle the other day, and he got mine right on the first try. Isn't that something? Then I told him how we named our first dog, that little cocker spaniel, Ringo."

"Mum! That's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about."

I'm envisioning a crafty young man somewhere in the third world, posing as Tom Selleck, composing emails and texts designed to trick elderly North American women into revealing all their PVQ answers over the course of a long, drawn-out, completely false relationship.

"I think you should ask to meet this man in person. Somewhere safe, of course. Like at the cafe."

"Oh, I don't know," she hedges. "He says he wants to take things slowly. He's been burned before, you see. We haven't even spoken on the phone or the zoom yet."

Hmmm. I can imagine why.

"Then how do you know he's not an identity thief, casting a great big net around your personal information?"

She doesn't respond for a moment.

"I just don't. I can't explain how, but I believe he's a very genuine, kind gentleman who's interested in getting to know me."

"Just be careful," I say again, uselessly.

I AM BEGINNING TO sweat unprettily, and I really need to pee. I'm sitting on one side of a long boardroom table in a meeting room that could easily double as a sauna, regretting the cashmere turtleneck sweater under a loose-fitting blazer with skinny jeans that I chose for this auspicious first meeting of the Carvil leadership team. I'd forgotten that corporate offices are consistently frigid in the summer and unbearably overheated in the winter and that cashmere turtlenecks, no matter how kitteny-soft and cute, are ill-advised under the blasting heat of the air vents.

I pull at my neck uncomfortably, trying to waft a breeze down into my bra without drawing the attention of the three people sitting across from me, which isn't hard given their complete absorption in their oversized phones. Their eyes barely flitted up to acknowledge me when Joss Carvil's EA deposited me into my seat, promising a coffee that has yet to arrive.

"Hi! I'm Alice MacKenzie," I'd said with more enthusiasm than I felt. Something about finding myself back in an office, no matter how swanky-yet-lofty-cool this one was, was setting my entire system on fire with flight-or-flight adrenaline. "I run the All Good Things cafe."

"We're waiting for Joss," responded the female one of the three, before looking back down into her phone like her male counterparts.

Cowed, I'd taken my own phone out and have been scrolling importantly through my Facebook feed under the table while simultaneously jiggling my foot nervously while we waited.

I'm about to excuse myself and nip out to the ladies' (must be the nerves) when the frosted glass door swings open and Joss enters with the same beautiful woman he was at lunch with at the King Edward hotel.

"Alice!" he booms happily and comes around to my side of the table to shake my hand warmly and deposit an unexpected kiss on my cheek. A little familiar for a business meeting, I think!

The woman lifts her eyebrow and mutters something about Covid before taking a seat at the head of the table. Joss folds himself elegantly into the seat directly beside mine and says, "Alice, don't mind my sister. She's a liberal snowflake. Likes to follow the rules." He flings air quotes around "follow the rules" creating an intentional distinction between her (gorgeous spoilsport rule-follower) and himself (equally gorgeous devil-may-care renegade).

"Good to meet you, Alice. I'm Justine Carvil. Chief Marketing Officer," says the snowflake.

I nod, unsure if it's my turn to speak and, if it is, what I might say.

Fortunately, it turns out not to be my turn at all. The previously silent corporate drones across the table have put their phones on the table and are now boring into me with glinty eyes.

"David Vandross, Partnerships and Acquisitions," says the one in the dark blue suit and light checked shirt.

"Ramesh Singh, Legal Counsel," says the one in the slightly less dark blue suit and dark checked shirt.

"Eloise Moreau," says the woman, who has the womenswear version of the men's dark blue suit, but also, in a nod to her femininity, a statement necklace so over the top as to be bordering on ridiculous. "Corporate Communications and PR." She eyes me like a threat that needs to be neutralized.

"Now that we've all met, let's talk about the future," smiles Joss, who rubs his hands together and turns toward the screen expectantly.

The PR woman taps a sleeping laptop to life and the wall-sized screen illuminates with the shaky first seconds of my TikTok dance. Horrified, I realize that we're going to watch the pinnacle of my embarrassment together. I slink lower in my seat, jiggling my foot faster.

I keep my eyes on my lap and wait until the music stops before I lift them back to the screen. At last, the life-size me is finished embarrassing herself and she has been replaced by a slide of stats.

"More than one hundred million views to date with a watch rate of over 95%," reports Eloise in an authoritative PR voice. I know this voice because it was once my own.

"Yes, very good," says David, holding his finger up. "What's that mean exactly?"

"Watch rate measures complete views—people who viewed the video from start to finish. We're talking engagement here, people. Lots of it," Eloise replies, then continues down the bullet-pointed list. "A nearly 70% share rate in the first week, which accounts for the intense pick up on total views. This has now dropped to 30%, which, while still healthy, indicates waning interest in the original video."

Joss steeples his fingers and presses them against his almost alarmingly chiselled chin. "So we need to move fast on this before the air goes out of the tires."

"Tires?" I say sheepishly.

David speaks up. "We want you in the cultural spotlight when we acquire your brand. Otherwise, what are we buying? Just a neighbourhood cafe with a saving the homeless youth angle?"

Eloise shakes her head in agreement. "Nope, that won't work. Not a good story for us."

I put my hand up now. "Wait... I thought that was exactly what you wanted. Something with social currency to counteract, you know..." It feels impolite to bring up their reputation as evil climate killers so I let my voice trail off.

The lawyer's pen stops scratching across his legal pad for a moment as he looks up and says, "I propose we add a muzzle clause to this agreement. Ms. MacKenzie can't make statements like that to the--"

"How about you just do another video, Alice?" interrupts Joss.

"Um," I say, really needing to pee.

Eloise cuts back in. "Terrible idea. The likelihood of landing another viral moment in today's seen-it-over-it landscape is a million to one. Attempting it would be lame. Total lame-osity."

I shoot her a grateful look that she doesn't acknowledge.

"I would have to agree with Eloise on this," panders David, who I very much doubt knows anything about TikTok himself. "Terrible idea. Why don't we just buy the whole thing out? Subsume the brand. Hide it in the closet."

Joss's gold-flecked eyes alight on my uncomfortable face. He probably assumes I'm upset about the idea of being subsumed by Carvil Foods, but in reality, I'm just urgently focused on my bladder.

"No, no. That's not the spirit of the agreement we've put to Alice. We aren't going to eat her up." Then he adds under his breath, "No matter how much we'd like a taste."

Justine scoffs from across the room.

"I'm sorry, but I really need to take a bio-break," I say, already moving out of my seat.

Rajesh, the lawyer, shouts as I approach the boardroom doors. "The NDA you signed in reception applies, Ms. MacKenzie, to any conversation we've had here today."

I wave my hand in his direction.

AS THE TOILET FLUSHES and I emerge from the cubicle, I'm surprised to see Justine Carvil at the sinks, applying a coat of striking red lipstick.

"Oh, hi," I say. "Sorry for leaving the meeting. When nature calls, you know," I put my hands under the soap dispenser and try not to openly gawk at Justine. The bone structure. The perfect skin. I mean, my god, some people really win it all in the genetics lottery.

"Don't worry about it," she says into her reflection. "They'll be using the time to scheme. You watch; when you go back in, they'll have a plan all nailed down."

I laugh. "I don't know if I should be relieved or nervous."

She turns from the mirror and looks into my face.

"My advice, Alice? Tread carefully. My brother can be a very charming man when he wants to be. But he has only his own interests in mind. See you back in there."

With that, she swoops out of the washroom, leaving me to dry my wet hands and consider her warning.